This Thing That I've Become
by mazarin
Summary: Follows "Waiting There For You" and "The Things We Never Had." Sherlock has made it to Afghanistan - and things aren't going the way they expected.


"Come with me to Qurya," Sherlock says. "I found the most interesting shop – I'm sure fully half of what they sell is illegal drugs from the back door, but I need you to distract them so I can check." Sherlock sits in the visitors chair opposite John and looks at him expectantly.

"What, like opium? Welcome to Afghanistan. Probably three-quarters of the population of Qurya sells poppy."

Sherlock grimaces, remembering his last run-in with poppy. "No, a little harder than that. Just need you to walk in, play the fish out of water coalition soldier, and let me do my work."

"Can't right this minute, sorry. Have all this to do before the next mail run." John tries to tamp down the little curl of interest he feels stirring when he sees that bright look in Sherlock's eye. It sounds right up his street, after all. But he really can't; too much to take care of before the next CO shows up. Sherlock probably won't get into too much trouble in tiny little Qurya, anyway; no harm leaving him on his own a bit.

Sherlock looks disgruntled for a moment before he gets up and makes his way around to behind John's chair and runs a finger down John's neck, making him shiver.

"Go away," he says, but there's no bite to it. He catches Sherlock's hand, kisses the back of it before placing it on the desk. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

Instead of being upset at the dismissal, Sherlock simply leans forward and kisses John's neck instead. "No," he says. "And I don't care if you are. Want you." Sherlock punctuates his statement with a lazy swipe of his tongue around John's earlobe.

"Dammit, Sherlock, I still have a job to do. And this is my office; anyone could come in here."

"I fail to see the problem," Sherlock says, and saunters around to slide his bum up on John's desk, lifting his booted feet to the armrests of John's chair.

John stares, Sherlock's crotch suddenly at eye level. He licks his lips once and lifts his eyes to Sherlock's face.

"Careful, there, or I'll have you across my desk."

"Again – how is that a problem?"

John stands abruptly, the suddenness of the movement tipping Sherlock slightly backwards until John grabs a fistful of his shirt and hauls him back in, his lips a hairs breadth from Sherlock's delicious mouth. "Never knew you had an exhibitionist streak," he says, and kisses Sherlock hard for a moment before he pulls back. "But I could face discipline. So wait."

Sherlock sits back with his eyes closed and visibly swallows. He ducks his chin and looks up at John with those impossibly pale eyes, a picture-perfect sultry come-on if John's ever seen one. Then he arches one eyebrow, and he's Sherlock again, impossible, incorrigible, infuriating and the most amazing and lovely thing John's ever experienced.

"Meet me in the supply tent in an hour," he murmurs, then hops off the desk.

"The supply – Sherlock, didn't you hear a word I said? Sherlock? Sherlock!"

John's calls go unheeded as Sherlock turns around at the door with an outrageous wink and disappears down the hall.

"Oh, God_dammit_," John mutters, and sets his mobile alarm for an hour from now.

* * *

><p>Sherlock paces in the supply tent, counting down the minutes. John will be here, he has absolutely no doubt about it. Sherlock has found to his utter delight that John is just as unable to resist the siren call of sex as he is; that John finds his body arousing, wants to give pleasure as well as receive it, has been a delight to discover and a rush to experience.<p>

He's not quite certain about everything else, though. Sherlock's found that even the little town of Qurya is full of vice and intrigue, a little antique shop showing all the signs of illegal trafficking, going by the state of the clientele and the frequency with which they turned up. He could easily investigate on his own, but he wants John with him, the last year alone reinforcing in his mind how important John is to his work. Sherlock's found, though, that John has his own work, his own responsibilities, which have taken priority over his time on cases. It's a niggling little thorn of a worry in an otherwise fantastic ten days.

But now that he considers the matter, perhaps the last year has been harder on their friendship than he'd realized, the dark specter of Sherlock's seeming abandonment hovering over them like a cloud, keeping John from getting too close. He certainly hopes that's not the case – John said he understood, that he forgave Sherlock his silence.

Sherlock sits down on a pile of boxes, trying to keep his impatient foot-tapping to a minimum, and tries to think it through. What if – if he tried harder, was more accommodating to John's work life, worked independently at times if possible, and asked John to help only when he was off-duty, unless it was a time-critical case, of course. It's inconvenient, it's inelegant to his processes, it's awkward. But it would make John happy, and that, he's finding, makes him happy, too.

The door flap lifts and he smiles, looking up to see John's blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, and Sherlock's heart skips a beat, need and adoration fighting for equal time. Oh yes, he does need this, needs John. He's never had a chance at a life this sublime, and now that he's made it this far, he won't let anything come between them.

* * *

><p>John kicks off his shoes after their impromptu shag and strips down to step into the shower. He really needs to clean up before his next rotation – his patients wouldn't appreciate him reeking of sweat and sex.<p>

In the nearly 10 days that Sherlock has been at the hospital, they've spent almost every free moment John had together, and most of that naked. Sherlock's body is intoxicating – long and lithe and strong, those adorable freckles that now peppered his nose and the tops of his cheeks making him look younger, more boyish.

John smiles as he steps under the spray. Is this what it's going to be like at home? He can't imagine it, really. Sherlock's been affectionate to a degree that almost borders on insatiable. Certainly, the first flush of a new relationship always has that effect on anyone, but John can't even cross the room without Sherlock sliding a seductive hand up his arm or grabbing his arse, if he's not chatting to him about some case or experiment or other he's working on. He's asked a couple of times for John to come with him on an inquiry, but his timing has been horrid. There's only six weeks or so left before he leaves, and there are things he needs to wrap up. He's glad Sherlock is keeping himself occupied, at least. It'll be better once they're home; he's sure Sherlock will revert to himself once they're there and settled.

Well, he hopes everything doesn't go back to normal. Just thinking of the last hour is getting him hard again.

He shakes off the impending arousal, dries off and puts on his scrubs, and heads to the hospital for rounds.

It's only 10 minutes after he gets there that the signal for incoming – the first in two weeks - blares.

…

Nurse Cole gives John a good looking over when he gets to the scrub-in station, prepping for a quick, non-life-threatening shrapnel removal.

"Finally let you out of your quarters, did he?" she says drily.

John rolls his eyes. "I have actually been doing my job, or haven't you noticed?"

"Sure, but you disappear whenever you aren't technically on duty. When was the last time you went to poker night?"

"Um…a couple of weeks ago," John answers. "What? I know I've been…busy, but it's not like I expected him to show up on my doorstep." And snog me senseless every other minute, he adds mentally.

"It'd be nice to see you once in a while. Hamilton is about to clean me out, and you're the only one who can stop her. Or stop me playing her."

"You have the worst poker face of anyone I've ever known," John says as he hits the footpedal to rinse down. "You hitch your left eyebrow when you have a good hand."

Cole looks shocked. "I do? Oh, hell."

"You do. And Kris Hamilton shifts her foot to wrap around the leg of her chair when she's bluffing. So watch that."

"You should come back and show me. Come on, John," she says, helping John pull his surgical gown on. "Bring that gorgeous man of yours, too. He's enough to distract Kris, anyway."

"Probably distract me instead," John says, as he ducks into surgery.

* * *

><p>Sherlock scans the crowd in the marketplace, attempting to locate the man he'd been tailing when a scooter had suddenly pulled out in front of him, cutting him off and making him lose focus for only a second. The speed with which his quarry had vanished at his momentary lapse of attention confirms that they know they're being watched, and that he'd better lay low for a day or so to lull them into enough security they resume their previous habits.<p>

He was right in that the shop isn't just selling dodgy antiques of questionable veracity; they're fronting a few more illegal things out the back – likely heroin and possibly methamphetamine.

But they've made him now, and his opportunity for getting into the shop and simply taking a another, more informed look is past. _John could do it_, he thinks. _But I'd have to find a time that he'd come with me. No telling when that might be, though, and I did say that I would respect his need to do his work, so I must. _

It might just be easier to stage a quiet break in. Yes, that seems best. He needs one more day to determine the best time and approach, perhaps the day after tomorrow.

Sherlock turns back toward the hospital, content at least that he has a plan, but feeling isolated, divorced from the camaraderie he and John had once shared over cases. Setting the balance of their time might be harder than he ever anticipated.

* * *

><p>When John finally reaches his quarters almost eight hours later, Sherlock is sprawled out on his bed, using his laptop. Again.<p>

"Oi! I told you to stay out of that!" John leans over and does something he never expected he'd be able to - take a playful swat at Sherlock's arse.

"What the – stop that!" Sherlock complains, but closes the laptop and stashes it under the bed.

"Have you made much progress on that case you were telling me about?" John asks, emptying his pockets.

Sherlock sits up, crosses his legs under him. He seems to consider for a moment before he says, "Some. Not as much as I had hoped, but some."

"Would you like me to come with you? I have rounds tomorrow, and a mound of paperwork, but I could – "

"Absolutely not," Sherlock says, turning his head to the side and plucking at the sheet. "It's nothing, a simple matter. I'll have it finished the day after tomorrow."

John frowns. It's not like Sherlock to be so dismissive of something he's working on – he's usually chattering to John at least about theories, about facts, even if John can't be there in person. John wonders if working alone for the last year made him realize that he doesn't need John quite as much as John feels like he needs him. Wouldn't that just be the icing on top of the rather rotten cake, he thinks sourly. But maybe it really is nothing, and asking would make him look ridiculous, silly.

"That's fine, then," he says, carefully keeping his tone light. "I'll just keep plugging away. It seems that no matter how many things I take out of my in-tray, there's always more than when I started." He looks down at where Sherlock is stretched out across his bed, the flat of his stomach highlighted by his tight, black tee shirt tucked into dark brown cargo trousers. The collar of his shirt has slipped sideways to reveal a sharp collarbone under pale skin, and John's entranced. He leans forward and traces his finger along it, watching with pleasure as Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes deep.

Sherlock doesn't stay that way for long. He reaches up and snags John by a beltloop and pulls him down, making him overbalance and fall rather gracelessly onto the bed. Sherlock manhandles him over onto his back so he can hitch a leg over John's hips and settle on his lap.

"Shouldn't have opened such with such an obvious gambit, Captain," Sherlock teases, and proceeds to unbuckle John's belt and pull open the flies to dip his hand under the waistband of John's briefs.

"Wasn't sure you'd want, okay, haaaa…Sherlock, my God, your hands," John moans as Sherlock pulls John's trousers down as far as he can and takes up a slow, almost pulsing rhythm with his fist wrapped around John's cock. John melts into the feeling for a few moments, watching Sherlock's furrowed brow as he concentrates on his strokes, flicking his tongue out to lick his lip. He looks up at John with lust burning in his eyes, and John's undone.

He's even more so when Sherlock curls down to lick his cock, tracing around the head before swallowing him down as far as he can. John bucks a little and swears, because Sherlock gives the best blowjobs John's ever experienced from anyone, man or woman, his lips and tongue and hell, his _eyes_ under their dark fringe of lashes just made for it.

"Fuck, want you," he says, as Sherlock cups John's balls gently in one hand and moans a little around his cock. Less than 12 hours apart and he _burns_ for it, the sharp enveloping heat of Sherlock's body around him, feeling him come apart at just the right touch of fingers and lips and teeth and cock all at once.

Sherlock slides back, removes his shirt. He stands up and shucks his trousers in one swift pull and turns back to John, sliding his palm over his now-full erection.

"I want to ride you," he says, his voice gone dark and smooth. "I want to fuck myself on your cock until I come so hard I feel it for _days_."

John groans, heat cascading through his body at the words. Sherlock hadn't broken out the dirty talk before, and hearing such lovely, filthy things in that low baritone rumble spikes John's arousal through the roof. "Get over here, and bring the lube."

Sherlock snags the little bottle he'd picked up a few days before and tosses it to John before he climbs back on the bed to lay on his stomach, his head resting on his folded arms. One bright eye peeps up from under silky dark curls.

John pulls off his boots and trousers and shirt in a flash, and leans back on the bed next to Sherlock. He opens the bottle and drizzles a little lube across his fingers, rubbing them together slightly to warm it.

This is the part he likes, watching Sherlock's body melt under his fingertips, feeling him become open, pliant. He never felt like he had the time with some of his previous lovers, that it was a means to an end for both of them. Ten days is still so new, a nascent relationship built on shifting sands of circumstance, but already John feels that he has all the time in the world.

He presses two fingertips gently against Sherlock's anus, rubbing the lube over, around, and finally gently pushing inside, holding his fingers there a moment until he can feel Sherlock's body start to relax.

"Ohhhh, that's perfect," Sherlock says, and starts to rock back gently on John's hand. "Knew you'd have the most amazing fingers."

"Shhhh, just enjoy it. Knew you'd have the most amazing arse, too."

Sherlock chuckles at the same time as he gasps, a half-strangled sound that leaves John smiling. There's something about making Sherlock resort to involuntary reactions John finds so incredibly sexy that he keeps at it until Sherlock starts to shift under his hand, pushing back harder with breathy moans and gasps.

"More than ready," he says, pushing up on his elbows and arching his neck.

John's hand falls away and he rolls over onto his back, pouring a little more lube into his hand and slicking himself with it, flushing when he feels Sherlock reach down and help. Sherlock entwines his fingers with John's, stroking gently over John's erection before he gets up on his knees and straddles John's hips again.

"Easy," John says, as Sherlock settles back, the head of John's cock pushing against him until it slips in. John holds himself perfectly still, waiting for Sherlock to get used to the sensation before pushing forward. They'd had quite a bit of sex over the last ten days, but Sherlock was so tight, still trying to accustom himself to something he hadn't done with any regularity for years. At least, that's what he'd told John the first time they'd tried this particular act.

"_I'm ready just..ah, go slow. Please." Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and John watched in astonishment as his cheeks turned pink._

"_You have done this before, right?" John asked as a small bubble of panic formed in his stomach. Oh god, what if he's a virgin in this? How could he possibly be, with that all-knowing brain? Should they wait?_

"_Stop panicking. Yes, I have done this before." Sherlock's voice was slightly exasperated. "Just – not in a while. Years, actually."_

_Relief flooded in as John murmered, "We'll be as slow as you need," and kissed him softly._

John's jerked back to the present when Sherlock rocks himself down, taking John's cock slowly into his body until he's sitting in the cradle of John's hips. His head drops back once he's fully seated, his hands splayed over John's chest, eyes closed. John pulls his knees up behind Sherlock's back, shifts slightly and presses up, letting Sherlock's weight do a bit of the work. They move slowly at first until Sherlock's tips his head forward again and looks John in the eyes, not saying a word as he lifts himself up and drops back; a long, smooth thrust that leaves John gasping.

"Good?" Sherlock asks, his voice barely a breath.

"Like you can't tell," John answers, gripping Sherlock's hips. "Didn't you have plans for me?"

Sherlock cracks a smile, a smug lift of one half of his mouth, and starts to move in earnest, the susurrus of skin against skin and skin against sheets echoing in the quiet room, their moans and sighs sounding in counterpoint. John grips Sherlock's hips harder, starting to thrust up as Sherlock presses down.

"God, John," he gasps. "So good, let me fuck you, please, I need…" His voice is whispery, breathless, punctuated by a small gasp every time their hips meet.

"What? What do you need?" John's having an equally hard time speaking but anything , God, he'll give him anything he ever wants and more besides.

"Kiss me. Just – "

John does, surging up on one arm, the other pushing under Sherlock's arm to wrap around his back and pull him in, their mouths together but barely moving, a simple press of open lips and exchanged breath. John can feel Sherlock's body tightening around him as he gets closer to orgasm, the feeling pushing John ever closer to his own. It takes just a shivery moment until Sherlock is gasping, stroking his own cock and John's feeling warmth spill across his stomach.

John slides a hand along Sherlock's thigh, feeling it tremble as he works through the aftershocks, the rhythmic contraction of muscles jerking John into his own release. Sherlock slumps forward and rests his head on John's chest as it happens, and all John can do is hold on to that thin body as he shakes.

"Sweet Christ, I think you're going to kill me," John says with a shattered laugh, as he falls back on the bed and brings Sherlock with him. Sherlock chuckles and cuddles into his chest, his entire body draped over John's, his hair tickling John's chin. It's warm and sticky, and John doesn't want to move, doesn't want to leave this bed, leave Sherlock's body, ever.

But perhaps he should more than he has been, the thinks muzzily. Cole was right in that he'd disappeared the last ten days, and while yes, new relationships usually did lead to turning inward the first little while, John knows that living wrapped in each other can't last. As much as he's appreciated his time here, when they get back to London they'll have to resume their previous lives, with a few modifications.

Which includes this, them. It looks like they may have to sort this all over again when they get home. John's hopeful familiar surroundings will help straighten out their apparent oddness about cases, but how do they act around their colleagues, their friends, now? How do they strike that balance between work lives and personal lives, and when John's going to try to have what amounts to two jobs? John admits in the deepest parts of his heart that he's struggling a bit with Sherlock's constant presence – perhaps this would be a good time to try to go off on his own. Besides, Sherlock wouldn't be interested in going to play poker with a large group of strangers.

"Sherlock."

"Hmph?"

"Sherlock, wake up a minute." John pokes him in the side a little until he squirms.

"No. Go 'way."

"I'm going to poker tomorrow night."

"What?" Sherlock wakes up fully in an instant and stares at John with wide, disbelieving eyes. "You're joking."

"I'm really not. We should get out of here at some point, and I likely won't see some of these people ever again. Besides, we can't spend all of our time having sex."

"Why not?" He's pouting, the pretty curve of his lower lip pushed out, and John can't help but kiss it.

"Because we have lives, Sherlock. Beyond the bedroom. Or at least I do. Perhaps you've decided to retire?"

Sherlock looks appalled. John loses control entirely and laughs, even harder when Sherlock rolls his eyes at him and slides off to lay curled on his side facing away, the very picture of a teasing, epic pout.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," John says and wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist, kissing him on the nape of the neck. Sherlock simply curls up tighter. "You know I was only joking." Sherlock remains unmoved. John traces his fingers down Sherlock's spine, kisses his ear. "I'll make it up to you," he whispers, and smiles when Sherlock shudders.

"Promise?" he says, turning his head to look at John over his shoulder. "Because I can think of a few things we haven't done yet."

"There are bushels of things we haven't done yet. Now get up and get a cloth, you lazy sod. I got it last time."

"Fine. But I'm going with you."

"You are?" John blinks in surprise. This should be interesting, seeing how Sherlock reacts to his team, and how they react to him.

"Yes. Someone has to teach you how to bluff properly. You must be absolutely dire at it."

* * *

><p>Sherlock wakes up early the next morning, John still peacefully curled into his side. The narrow bed has been a challenge to manage, but Sherlock's more than happy to spend every night on his side and pressed to the cold cinderblock wall just to share precious breathing space with him.<p>

He reaches out and touches his fingertips lightly to John's temple, wishing he could transport all the thoughts that John has, has ever had, right into his own brain. It would go a long way in helping him sort out what to do. He's mature enough to admit that he's confused. When he asks for John's help, John always says no, that he's too busy with his work to join Sherlock in his. But John otherwise seems happy with his company, will bed him at the drop of a hat, insists that Sherlock continue with his work and even offered to come with him today if he were needed, despite his obviously heavy workload. Perhaps John's excitement over his own rekindled career has dimmed his interest in Sherlock's, which is not an outcome had Sherlock anticipated when he imagined their reunion.

Sherlock is determined not to add to his burdens, despite the glimmer of hope John's offer gave him. He's been used to being selfish, demanding and receiving everything he ever had a whim to have. He's learned that people, especially people who matter to him, shouldn't be bullied like that, and while he doesn't anticipate cutting the Yard any slack whatsoever, the John that he's learning about won't hesitate to demand equal and respectful time. Sherlock finds himself pleasantly surprised that he wants to give it to him. Perhaps he'll ask about the reconnaissance trip tomorrow, bring John with him then. Hopefully this time he'll accept.

So he gets up and quietly goes to his guest quarters next door. He showers, pulls on his salwar kameez and walks out of the gates toward town.

Early morning means coffee, and two hours later Sherlock is still sitting in a café down the street from the antique shop. He wants to see how many people are not just patrons, but involved, employees or knowledgeable about the activities that go on there, to judge the threat before deciding on the best course of action.

Quite a large number, going by the steady stream of people.

Satisfied that he's seen enough to justify his nighttime raid with John in tow, Sherlock turns the opposite way from which he came and walks toward a side of the city where he might reasonably find a set of picklocks.

He's passing a small shop when a gleam catches his eye. It's a silversmiths, intricately worked jewelry and tableware on display in the small, dusty window. There may be something inside that would serve.

The door jingles, a cascade of bells warning the owner that someone has come to call. The interior is dim but opulent, wood and glass cases softly lit with small spotlights, emphasizing the quality of the goods on offer. Sherlock can smell the burn of a torch; everything is made on-site, probably by the owner himself, and likely to order.

"May I help you?" A tall, clean-shaven man walks in from the back, pulling his leather apron off and slipping it behind the counter.

Sherlock's a bit distracted, barely capable of remembering what he came in for after he sees a solid silver ring perched on a velvet stand. The surface is smooth, polished, but the edges are rolled and coiled like a rope.

"That ring, there," Sherlock says, pointing.

"Ah, yes. Half an ounce of the best sterling silver," the shopowner says, and pulls a small scale out from under the counter. He places the ring on the tray and sets the slide, which reads 0.6 oz. He looks at it, looks again, lifts the ring and places it back on the tray. "My apologies, sir. While I'm sure you'd be just as happy with a heavier ring for the money, I'm sure I don't understand. I weigh them all when I'm done, to set the price."

Sherlock looks at the small balance. "You should probably have it calibrated, then. Let's have a look." He places the ring on the balance, finds the screw, and turns it until the display reads properly. "There. But still, call a professional."

"Indeed. I had all of my scales calibrated less than six months ago."

"I believe you, Mr…?"

"Hazar. Ahmed Hazar."

Sherlock blinks, the connection flashing instantly across his mind. The antique shop owner. "Are you related to Sarjah Hazar?"

"Yes, my cousin. He relocated here from the West Bank some years ago. My father's family are all from Palestine."

"Excellent." Sherlock quirks a smile. Oh, those men were playing a dangerous double game – selling short, giving their customers just a tiny bit less than they'd actually paid for, borrowing and tampering with their cousin's jeweler's scale to give a veneer of honesty. Clever, yet unbelievably stupid, because undoubtedly they'll get caught one day. It looks like tomorrow night it is – a small reconnaissance is most definitely in order.

There's just one more thing he needs to do before he leaves to rejoin John for poker night. "Do you do custom work?"

* * *

><p>The small room the hospital normally has poker night in is so jam-packed that John can barely fit in the door. Word of Sherlock's appearance tonight must have traveled. <em>Cole<em>, he thinks wryly. He waves away the chorus of "Evening, sir," and pulls a slightly hesitant Sherlock into the room after him, grabbing his usual seat and pulling another chair up next to him. Sherlock was insistent on coming, but now that he's here, he seems a little uncomfortable.

"Do you want to play?" John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not quite yet," he whispers. "I need to know them first."

John smiles, understanding what Sherlock means by "know." He turns to the gathered crowd. "Everyone got your looky-loo in? Good. This is Sherlock Holmes. He came here to bring me home, but he's a touch early, so he's going to muck about a bit until I leave in April. All right?" John's tone is casual, but from the somewhat abashed looks from around the table, it's clear that his staff were more than all right, clearly curious about Sherlock and mostly happy for their Captain. "Oh for Heaven's sake. Yes, he's my…partner."

Alice Murphy makes an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal and everyone laughs. Sherlock grins and looks him in the eyes, and John feels warmth curl tight in his chest. Maybe it was a good idea Sherlock came after all. He looks away quickly before he just reaches over to snog Sherlock stupid in front of everyone, picks up the cards and starts to shuffle.

"Everyone in who's going to be in this hand, and the game is five-card stud."

The night wears on with jokes and little barbs and half the nurses cooing over Sherlock's hair. John merely laughs when Sherlock rolls his eyes and tips his chair back against the wall, twirling a pen in his fingers. Sometimes it looks like he's holding a cigarette, and John wonders just how recently he'd given up the habit. He feels like he should know this already, know everything there is to know and understand about Sherlock's last year, but Sherlock is oddly reluctant to tell him the story. He knows he'll learn it all in good time, though, and doesn't feel the need to push.

Sherlock joins six hands in and has the bead on Hamilton before she can blink, bluffing her out of a low flush. John is astounded at Sherlock's nerve playing poker, but he doesn't know why he would be; of course Sherlock could read everyone in the room.

"What the hell, John, did you build him yourself or did he come programmed like that?" Shepard complains when Sherlock wins his third hand in a row.

John wads up a napkin from the snack table and tosses it at Shepard, hitting him on top of the head. "Just because he's absolutely cleaned your clock doesn't mean you get free shots."

"Why? Because you brought a ringer to get your money back?" Shepard laughs and flicks a Smartie at John.

"I did not!"

"You did! Look at him! Even if he weren't a bloody calculator, he's got Kris so looped she's drooling into her cup." Shepard punctuates his statement with a bump to Hamilton's shoulder.

"What?" she says, then realizes she's been caught staring. "Am not, you stupid git," she grumbles.

John laughs, looking at Sherlock where he's watching the exchange with a half-smile on his face, the tips of his ears pink. John's guessing he's never been the object of playful banter before, of silly flirtation. But he seems more relaxed now than he'd been since he came in. John never thought he'd see the day when cool, aloof Sherlock Holmes would willingly bask in this sort of attention.

"And," Shepard continues grandly, "because of that little bit of a bombshell, no one will give poor old me a second glance, so thanks for that, mate." Shepard winks, an eruption of hoots and jeers and a chorus of "Oh, Liam, shut up," reverberating in the small room.

Feeling bold, John leans over to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "And _are_ you my little bit of a bombshell?"

Sherlock turns back to him, leaning close until his lips touch John's ear. "Boom," he whispers, his breath tickling John's skin.

Oh, fuck it all. He'll catch hell if this gets out, but the temptation of a smiling, happy Sherlock is too great to ignore any longer. He pulls him into a wet, sloppy kiss right there in front of everyone, barely registering the whistles and claps and giggles that echo across the courtyard into the night.

* * *

><p>"That was a pretty good evening," John says as he unlocks his door. "I think you won back most of what Hamilton got from me the last month." John pushes his way inside, Sherlock silent on his heels.<p>

"Of course, she's won ten times that since I've been here," he continues, pulling off his boots and stripping his shirt. Sherlock sits down on the bed and pulls his knees up to his chest, brow furrowed, looking perturbed. "What's with you? I thought you'd be happy you won so much. And you looked like you had a pretty good time. Didn't you?"

Sherlock shakes his head minutely. "No, it's not that, I'm still going over that shop. There are a few specific points that I need certainty on."

"You're still working on it? I thought you said it was almost done."

"I did, and it is, to a certain extent. But I noticed a silversmith's scale was also mis-calibrated while I was in town, and I know they're related." Sherlock looks up sharply, the fierce flame of his intelligence burning in his eyes, a look that John's almost forgotten and is now almost shocked to see. "I could use you tomorrow."

John's heart soars. That look, that siren's call to adventure, is what got him started down this path in the first place. He's giddy with relief that Sherlock wants him there at his side, working a case together. He's about ready to shout his yes to the heavens when reality slams in.

He's on overnight tomorrow. But it's an hour, probably. He could get someone to cover an hour. Right? Oh, balls. He really can't. He knows he can't, and nor should he. His priority is his patients, and everyone has to put their time in. It's only fair.

"Sherlock, I'm thrilled you asked, but I can't. I'm sorry. I have too much on my plate tomorrow - I'm on an overnight from noon until six the next morning ."

"John-"

"Sherlock, I can't just shirk my duties. You said that you'd understand, that you got how important my work is to me. I don't want to say no, but I have to this time."

Sherlock scrubs a hand through his hair, slumps against the wall, and simply says, "Okay."

John's surprised. "Okay?"

"Yes, okay. Perfectly clear. I'll go alone."

"That's fine, then. Let's go to bed. I'm exhausted." John drops his trousers over a chair and watches as Sherlock climbs in almost completely clothed. John raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn't say a word and turns out the light. He settles in against the pillows and tries to relax, but the ease with which Sherlock accepted his refusal has left him unsettled. The lack of anything resembling wheedling or convincing or even simple demanding is picking away at him, and he feels the skein of their relationship starting to unravel under the uncertainty.

Before long, he feels Sherlock's fingers sliding up his thigh. He rolls over in the darkness, finds his way to Sherlock's mouth and kisses him, a slow, lazy slide of mouths and tongues that makes him shiver.

"Since I don't get the pleasure of your company tomorrow," Sherlock says quietly, "may I still have it tonight?"

"You know I can't say no to that," John says, and the abrupt pullback makes him startle. "What? What did I say?"

Sherlock bends his head to kiss along John's chest. "Nothing," he says.

As Sherlock's mouth wraps around his prick, John wonders why so little in their preceding conversation made him feel at all satisfied.

* * *

><p>Crouching in an alleyway behind a bin filled with all sorts of unspeakable and foul-smelling things is not at all how Sherlock expected to spend his night.<p>

He'd left just after noon, waving John off to his office for what would amount to a grueling 18 hour day by the time he was off at six am tomorrow. If he'd realized John was on an overnight tonight, he would have pushed the break-in up to after poker last night, when John could have come with him. He sighs. It's not like he could keep track of everything, especially when his brain was so uncharacteristically muddled when John was around. He'd not told John what his plans were, just that he'd see him tomorrow morning, dropped a kiss to his mouth, and left.

Now that he's sitting with plenty of time to consider it, perhaps it would have been a better idea to tell John exactly what he thought was going on here. Mostly because he hadn't planned on someone already breaking into the shop before he got there.

The low, moving light of a torch shines out of the door, giving Sherlock just a second warning to pull his head in before he is spotted. Three men step out carrying a large crate, load it into the back of a waiting van and drive away. Sherlock knows his opportunity is getting narrower, so he darts across the alley, picks open the door, and swiftly walks through the storeroom toward a large table he spies with his own torch. He pulls a small plastic tote from underneath the table and opens it, finding a number of small wrapped bundles, Sarjah Hazar's scale, and various other small tools.

Sherlock splits one of the small wrapped bundles and takes a tiny taste from the tip of his finger.

Heroin.

A sudden movement to his left is all the warning he gets before it all goes dark.

* * *

><p>When John gets off of his rotation the following morning, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. John assumes he must be around somewhere, as he didn't seem to think his trip into Qurya would be particularly long. Eighteen hours is quite an errand in the early spring heat, but he knows Sherlock will swan in sometime soon, ready for a bit of a snog and more than that, probably. He better get a nap in if he wants to be ready for the "more than that" portion.<p>

It really is odd, how very attached Sherlock is. John didn't expect once they became involved that Sherlock would spend every moment he wasn't on a case trying to pin John down and have his wicked way with him. It's more sex than he's had in years, but there's something worrying in his devotion, a desperation on occasion that makes John wonder. Does he think John will throw him over if he is simply himself? Does he fear that John will get tired of him as he normally is and leave? The thought is so impossible that he can barely fathom it. They've already gone through so much worse already, and John is still here.

He wakes up a few hours later, still alone. As the afternoon turns to evening with no sign of Sherlock yet, John is determined to ignore his jangling nerves and troops over to the canteen to grab a tray of something vaguely recognizable as pasta to eat, half-expecting Sherlock to drop into the seat next to him at any time. But when seven o'clock rolls around, then eight, nine, and ten, John really starts to worry. Sherlock hadn't left his side for the last 10 days except when he was at work and had made himself a nuisance even then.

_He just managed to sneak his way into the country without getting caught. He's fine. Relax_. John stretches out on his bed with his boots on and waits, determined not to go looking yet because Sherlock would laugh at him, think him ridiculous. He disappeared for much longer than that when they were at Baker Street.

_But he wasn't in a war zone that's getting hotter by the day, either_, John thinks grimly.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wakes up on the floor of the storeroom, hands bound behind his back. It's gone completely pitch dark outside, the only light in the room coming from a sign over the door.<p>

_John's going to kill me,_ is the first thing he thinks. The second is that he's obviously not dealing with a murderer, just a supplier, and that all the man wanted was for Sherlock to be out of commission for a while. The base ID John had issued to Sherlock when he arrived and he carried attached to his pocket probably didn't hurt, either. The storeroom is now completely empty of anything other than dusty old furniture and crates. Damn, damn, damn. They've buggered off and the chances of finding them again in the time he has left are small.

He should have known better, he _does_ know better, but his determination to show that he can still work completely independently and respect John's boundaries went way too far and spectacularly backfired. Serves him right, really, and now he'll have to go back go John and watch his eyes darken with unspoken disappointment at his earlier evasion, given even as Sherlock's heart had bled for the loss of him, sure and steady at his back.

He pulls on his wrists, trying to see if he can loosen his bonds at all. He only succeeds in rubbing his skin raw, so he looks around for anything he can possibly cut himself free with. The binding feels like twine, and it's definitely becoming more and more uncomfortable. His head is throbbing and his stomach is nauseous, and he's sure he's leaning toward dehydrated.

He staggers toward an office near the back of the storeroom, whispering a thank you to whomever might be listening that there's a boxcutter sitting on a pile of paper. The angle is awkward, but he manages, slicing bit by little bit through the twine, nicking his wrist once, blood sliding down his arm. Finally the twine breaks free and his shoulders sag forward, the sharp pain making him cry out.

He has to get back to the hospital before John comes looking for him. He has to have been gone over 30 hours, and by the time he makes it back it will be later than that. He staggers out of the door and makes his way toward the hospital, stopping along the way to clean off the blood and do his best to look normal.

It's a lost cause. John will see what he's trying so hard to hide in an instant.

* * *

><p>John tries not to fall asleep and fails, drifting in and out of wakefulness until he jerks awake at the creak of a door.<p>

It's Sherlock, leaning against John's desk to unlace his boots, the desklight John had left on highlighting the edges of his hair.

"Where the hell have you been?" John asks quietly.

Sherlock's head snaps toward him and he lowers the boot in his hand carefully to the floor. "In Qurya," he says slowly, looking at John as if he's a snake about to strike. "As I said I would be."

John feels almost instantly angry. "Christ, I thought you might have been picked up by insurgents or something! Didn't your mum ever teach you to leave a message?" John looks at the clock. It's 2 AM, almost 34 hours after Sherlock left.

"I didn't plan to be away that long." Sherlock drops his boots and walks over to stand next to the bed. He looks hard at John. "I'm sorry you were worried."

Johns mouth drops open in disbelief. "You're _sorry_ I was worried? People are kidnapped every day around here for ransom. You'd be the perfect target, you know that? And what happened to your wrist?" John grabs his arm before Sherlock can turn away, examining red, angry lines looped around his wrists and a line of blood across one pale hand. "You've been tied up, and cut yourself free. That's where you've been all this time! You were actually kidnapped?"John rubs his hand over his face."Unbelieveable."

"I'm sorry that my work is so inconvenient for you," Sherlock says. "I'll try to be more thoughtful the next time I'm coshed over the head. 'If you'll wait a moment, I just need to leave a message!'" Sherlock's almost shouting by the end, and John's livid and frightened and relieved that he wasn't hurt worse.

"How could you put yourself in that type of situation without telling me? Why didn't you just tell me what you needed, I'd have helped! Or has your lone wolf act this last year reminded you that you work best alone?" John winces, bracing for the ax to fall.

"What could possibly make you think that? Have I not asked you at least three separate times to come with me? Each time you said no."

"Because you asked at the worst possible time! For fuck's sake, I'm trying to get this place ready to hand over to someone else so we can leave!" Christ, John thinks. He's doing his best to do his duty so he can leave without any complications and Sherlock still isn't satisfied. The sudden flare up of anger breaks the dam of everything he'd been holding in for the past two weeks. "And even when I'm not on duty, there you are, following me around like a shadow, trying to seduce me every other minute! What the hell is that about?"

Sherlock stares at him, eyes hard and his mouth firm. "Forgive me if it's the only attention I can secure from the man I'm in love with," he says coldly.

John feels like someone punched him in the gut. "That's not true," he whispers, understanding flooding through him. Sherlock's constant bids for his attention, his strange neediness, his reaction to John's words last night and the sudden secrecy about casework. John's been so focused on his work and so intoxicated with his newfound access to Sherlock's body he's lost track of Sherlock himself, who and what he is, what he does, even as he could feel the loss of their partnership weighing on his heart.

And Sherlock just said he was in love with him.

John stands up and snags Sherlock's wrist, pulling him in to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock comes grudgingly, but when John presses an ear over his chest and hugs him tighter, he finally relaxes into the embrace, winding his arms around John's body.

"We are, quite possibly, the two biggest idiots on the planet," John says.

"Why so?" Sherlock's voice holds all of his hurt, his confusion. John's heart feels like it could shatter any minute.

"Because we're trying too hard to be people we aren't. Because I miss the Sherlock I know. Because I miss cases and running about with you, and am so sorry you felt like you needed to hide yourself from me because of some misplaced idea of what I expected from you. Because I haven't told you how much I love you."

Sherlock hitches a breath and lays his cheek against John's head. They stand together a long moment, wrapped in each other, trying desperately to find some equilibrium.

"I do need you, you know," Sherlock murmurs into his hair. "I can't tell you how much. When I was in Switzerland, Moriarty had me cornered near a waterfall, and he was shooting. All I could think was how very much I wanted you there with me, that I would die without ever seeing you again."

John just holds him tighter, wondering how things got to be such a mess so quickly. "I wish I had been there, too. But please, just trust me a little. I won't abandon you, I couldn't. I'm just busy for a few more weeks, then home. I told you before – I'll find a position that lets me go on most of your cases. I want to; I feel more alive chasing criminals with you than anywhere."

"Do you promise?"

"Of course. If you promise to go back to being yourself. Frankly, all this constant attention is a bit creepy."

Sherlock chuckles. "But what about the sex? I quite like that bit."

John pulls back to look at him, trying to gauge him. "And just how honest have you been about that, by the way? Because I'd feel a right arse if you…" John trails off, not quite sure how to finish that sentence without making himself feel worse.

Sherlock doesn't respond with words but instead dips his head to press a kiss to John's forehead, his cheeks, his closed eyes, and finally his mouth. "I've never been dishonest about how much I want you," he says softly. "Never doubt me on that."

John's knees feel a little weak at his words, the emotional free-fall they've been on taking its toll. He reaches higher along Sherlock's back, splaying his hands along Sherlock's shoulderblades and pulling him close again. He tucks his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing in the warm smell of his skin for a moment before pressing his lips to the juncture where neck meets shoulder, just over his collarbone. Sherlock shivers.

"Take me to bed," he says, and drops his hands from around John's shoulders to slide down his arms and grasp his wrists. He tugs gently, pulling John back toward his narrow bed until he can perch on the edge and lean his forehead on John's stomach. John cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tilting his head up to kiss him and feeling his lips part in invitation, in clear forgiveness. When they finally part, John feels dizzy, twisted around and slightly backward, keenly aware that they need a new start, a reset, if such a thing is even possible.

John slowly and gently removes Sherlock's boots, his trousers, pulls his shirt over his head and crawls over his body to cover him with kisses and nips, little pinpoints of adoration to make up for what he had so thoughtlessly neglected to convey before. Sherlock twists, moans, and twitches under John's mouth and hands, hooking his ankles over John's calves, holding him close. John smiles against his skin when Sherlock makes a particularly sharp gasp, reaction to John's hand suddenly stroking his erection.

"I want to feel you against me," Sherlock whispers, a desperate, needy sound that slides down John's spine, making him shiver and jolting him into action. He pulls of his tee shirt, shucks boots and trousers just as quickly, and leans back over Sherlock, settling himself in the cradle of Sherlock's hips and thighs. Their erections are trapped between their bellies, the soft-hard heat a tease, a temptation to continue to move, to shift against each other until the inevitable end.

John gives in and rocks against him a moment, savoring the sensation of the push and tug of their skin against each other before sliding back down Sherlock's body and onto his knees. John pushes his hands under Sherlock's thighs to curl up and over his hips, holding Sherlock perfectly presented for his mouth.

The first press of John's lips to the head of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock's gasping, desperately clutching at John's short hair, crying out when John takes him deeper, relaxing enough to take him all the way down, breathing sharply against his skin a moment before pulling his mouth back up, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks.

"Aaahhh, fuck," Sherlock pants, groaning when John does it again, words devolving into stutters and pants and whines when John doesn't stop, rhythmically dragging his lips over silky skin, pushing his tongue around the flare of the head, sucking and kissing and losing himself in the taste and feel and smell until Sherlock arches and cries out, spending across his tongue. John pulls back, gently releasing Sherlock's softening cock and wiping his hand across his mouth. Sherlock's eyes flare wide before he reaches up and grabs John's shoulders, yanking John down against his chest.

"You've been holding out on me," Sherlock says, pressing a kiss to John's hair. "I've never experienced anyone who could actually ah…ah..."

"Deep throat?"

"Charming. Yes, that."

"A man has to have a few things in reserve, you know, to keep things interesting."

Sherlock slides his hands down John's back. "Indeed he does," he says, and the mischievous tone is all the warning John gets before he's flipped over and Sherlock is hovering above him. "I think I could share a little as well." Sherlock reaches down to caress John's thigh, sliding his hands over the hard muscle and into the crease of his groin. John's eyes roll back in his head at the feel of those long fingers dipping into the space between his thighs, caressing his balls, running feather-light up his shaft.

Sherlock is as incredible a lover as John expected, turning years of discipline and focus and powers of observation to the study of his partner. He could bring John off in a matter of minutes or use his knowledge to draw things out, keep John on a quivering line between the sweetest pleasure and the most agonizing frustration almost indefinitely. John isn't sure what he hopes for most, tonight, other than the sensation of being one with this priceless, irreplaceable man, one he can feel himself falling ever deeper in love with. John feels like he wants to crawl inside Sherlock's skin, melt within him, exist solely in that space he's made for John behind the iron gate over his heart.

Sherlock's mouth travels down and further down, pressing kisses to John's sternum, his belly, his waist, his hips. When Sherlock finally takes the tip of John's cock into his mouth, the relief of the sensation makes his bones melt at the same time Sherlock's soft tongue on his slit makes him crackle with arousal. When Sherlock carefully slides two fingers into John's body, setting a slow, languorous pace in counterpoint with his mouth, John whimpers, grinding down on his stroking fingers, encouraging him to speed up. Sherlock won't be hurried, though, and quirks an eyebrow at John's impatience. John drops his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes, feeling the slow roll of his orgasm beginning, wave after wave building on itself until it crashes down, taking John's coherence with it as he shakes and cries out Sherlock's name, and that he loves him.

John comes back from his high with Sherlock plastered to his side and his ID tags wrapped around Sherlock's hand. John winds his arms around Sherlock's body and holds him close. He kisses Sherlock's curly head and lays his cheek against it, feeling the sweat cool from their bodies.

"I am sorry I downplayed the case, you know," Sherlock says quietly after a few moments, idly sliding the chain through his fingers. "I…thought I understood something that I obviously didn't. I am trying, John. But if I, well, if it's ever too much…"

"Shush," John says, and raises himself up on one arm so he can wrap his other hand around Sherlock's neck to pull him in for a soft kiss. "It's early days, yet. I'm not going to throw you over the side for something that's so fundamentally you I should have seen it coming. Frankly, running off is the most normal thing you've done since you've been here. As long as we remember that we shouldn't try too hard, we'll be all right. I just want to get us through the next six weeks in one piece."

"And then home?" Sherlock asks hopefully.

"And then home," John answers, the word a bright promise in his heart.

* * *

><p>Six weeks later finds them standing on an airstrip in Lashkar Gah, waiting for a helicopter to take them to Kabul so they can hop a transport back home.<p>

"It's been such an unbelievable year," John says, shielding his eyes as he scans the horizon. "But I honestly can't say I'm sorry I came back." It really has been one of the hardest times of his life, but one he'd desperately needed to have, it seems.

Sherlock drops his rucksack on the ground next to John's. "While I could have done with fewer people shooting at me, I'd say I have little to regret, at least in how the year ended." He smiles, a flash of true happiness so few people got to see. John's thrilled to count himself among the lucky ones.

"Absolutely. Speaking of how things ended, did the Hazars ever catch up with their outlaw cousins?"

Sherlock grins. "Ahmed left me a message just the other day, in fact. I have a feeling familial justice will be even more effective than State justice, in this case."

"Good. One last thing done, and now we're finally leaving. Well, at least I have you to remember it by." John bumps against Sherlock's shoulder and feels himself grinning stupidly. God, if he'd realized how things would turn out, that he'd have Sherlock, that he'd feel as whole and happy and fearless as he does, he'd have run to the plane when Mycroft told him he'd been reinstated.

"John," Sherlock says, and his voice is so deep and serious that John turns to him immediately.

"What? Did you forget something?" Sherlock is looking at the ground, a hand in his pocket, and seems so out of sorts that John isn't sure what's going on with him.

"No," he says quietly. "But I have something else for you to remember your time by." He steps forward and grasps John's hand, pulling it to him and kissing it. "I need to tell you, before we leave, that I promise I won't forget everything we've been here, everything we discussed. I swear I won't." Sherlock pulls his hand out of his pocket to reveal a simple silver ring, etched with a phrase in Dari John doesn't recognize.

"It says 'All my love and eternal devotion.' That's what I want to give you. Please, John. Say you'll marry me when we get home." Sherlock's eyes are earnest, begging, and John's stunned, feeling like the world has suddenly narrowed to nothing but the two of them standing close under the midday sun.

He stares until Sherlock's uncomfortable shift of feet makes him realize he hasn't said anything. He closes his eyes, opens them again and looks up into the eyes of the man who somehow, improbably, managed to save him from himself, simply by needing John to be more than he had become. And now he's come full circle, into Afghanistan and back again, this time whole, this time bringing Sherlock by his side.

"Sherlock Holmes, you ridiculously romantic - of course. God, yes. Besides, have I ever been able to say no to you?" John grins and pulls Sherlock in for a kiss, the whipping blades of the arriving helicopter swirling the tan dust of the crucible of Afghanistan around them.


End file.
